


Not As Strong

by jadztone



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anthea Ships it with Force if Necessary, Don't copy to another site, Fandom Trumps Hate, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Matchmaker Sherlock, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Post-Season/Series 04, Romance, Top Greg Lestrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-09-25 21:47:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20378629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadztone/pseuds/jadztone
Summary: After the Sherrinford ordeal, Sherlock asks Greg to look after Mycroft.  Greg needs no further urging, he's wanted to befriend Mycroft for years...and he really does try to be content with just that. Then he discovers Lady Smallwood's card and it initiates a discussion about romantic relationships.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of my Fandom Trumps Hate offerings this year. My bidder was open to plot ideas, so I suggested one that I've been sitting on awhile: a post-s4 exploration of Sherlock's infamous request of Greg to look after Mycroft, incorporating this fan art that I absolutely love:
> 
> <http://sashkash.tumblr.com/post/156296870867>

Gripping the steering wheel tightly seemed to be the only way to stop the tremors wracking his body. That and keeping his eyes fixed on the road. At this point, as tired and upset as he was, the best he could hope for was staying between the lines. If something unexpected occurred, he’d have no better reaction time than if he’d been staring at his mobile. Greg knew he should have taken the constable’s offer of driving him back, but no one else was allowed where he was going and he didn’t want to take the time to drop anyone off. He didn’t want to waste one minute before he could see Mycroft.

At Musgrave Hall, Greg had kept a calm and professional demeanor throughout the ordeal, knowing that John and Sherlock needed him to act normal._ You’re through the worst, everything’s going to be alright now. _They had appreciated it. Enough, apparently, that Sherlock wanted Greg to ‘look after’ his brother. Greg had calmly agreed to Sherlock’s request, while inside he felt relieved that he had some external excuse to do what his heart wanted anyways.

His professionalism had kept him there until he was certain the scene was secure and his presence wasn’t needed. It helped that he avoided dwelling on the details given to him by John and Sherlock. He recorded the information without allowing himself to think about the implications. Just the facts, ma’am. Now that he was alone - in the darkness of his car, with the sound of the tyres scraping along the road, eating up the distance - he let go enough to really think about what had happened. 

Sherlock…John…Mycroft… all of them had faced the possibility of death tonight. It was clear that Eurus had intended Sherlock to live, going so far as to prevent his attempt to sacrifice himself. John’s survival had been contingent upon Sherlock’s brilliant mind, and Greg found it hard to believe that he would have failed. But Mycroft…based on the statements they gave, his sister had predicted his demise. Hadn’t even planned for another outcome given that she left him in Sherrinford rather than bring him to Musgrove Hall for the final round of her twisted game.

John and Sherlock risked their lives all the time, and Greg understood this in the same way he understood that every officer in the Met woke up each morning knowing that it might be their last. This was not the case with Mycroft. Maybe his job was dangerous a long time ago, Greg didn’t know much about his past. Sherlock told him once that Mycroft didn’t do ‘legwork’ and Greg heard the implied ‘anymore’ in that statement. Any danger to Mycroft these days revolved around the power he wielded and those who might want to neutralise it. His security detail could be relied upon to reasonably prevent such occurrences. 

Greg felt the tremors increasing as he dwelled on the fact that he had come close to never seeing Mycroft again. What if Sherlock hadn’t refused to play his sister’s game, and killed Mycroft to spare John? What if she had responded to his refusal by killing Mycroft anyway, as she had done with the governor’s wife? 

Greg tightened his fingers on the steering wheel. He needed to get this feeling of horror out of his system now, so that he could go back to that calm façade he’d worn as he interviewed John and Sherlock. Mycroft didn’t need to see him coming apart at the seams. He needed looking after, as Sherlock said. _He’s not as strong as he thinks he is._ That bit of insight had torn at Greg’s heart. He’d always suspected this, that there was something underneath Mycroft’s hard shell that he was protecting. Mycroft _was_ strong. He had to be with the decisions he made, the secrets he kept. Apparently he’d tried to maintain that same level of detachment and iron will when it came to his family, and it had blown up spectacularly in his face. 

Greg couldn’t get out of his head the sound of Mycroft’s voice as he’d spoken to him via mobile. To anyone else, Mycroft would have seemed just as cold and dispassionate as always. But Greg had heard the underlying quake as he demanded to know what had happened to Sherlock. It was only after he’d got all the answers to his questions that he consented to give a frustratingly short account of his own ordeal. Greg could only hope that in person he’d be more forthcoming.

After an interminable amount of time, Greg finally arrived at the private airfield where Mycroft’s helicopter would be landing. Greg’s name was on the security list or else he wouldn’t have had a prayer of getting through. He parked at the tiny building next to the air strip and was ushered inside by Anthea. “Your timing is impeccable, he’s just arrived. They’re escorting him to the terminal.” Her voice betrayed no emotion whatsoever, but she looked about three shades paler than usual. 

The plan was that Mycroft would be debriefed by MI5 first thing. According to Anthea, the MI5 Director was not pleased that his people were not allowed on Sherrinford to conduct their own investigation into the security breach. Outraged was more like it, and Greg couldn’t really blame him given the proximity of an island full of deadly criminals. It _was_ MI5’s responsibility to ascertain the nature of any threats to the UK. Someone with higher authority believed the security of Sherrinford itself was more important. The director had only been appeased after it was promised that his operatives could interrogate Mycroft upon his return. Greg’s gut churned at the idea. Couldn’t the bloody vultures give him some time to recover before they swooped down on him? 

Greg felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up when the door leading to the air strip opened and several men entered. One of them was Mycroft and the other two flanking him were obviously security. Greg didn’t recognise their uniforms and wondered if they were from Sherrinford. Another door opened, and a man in a black suit appeared, holding the door open to what Greg could only presume was the designated briefing room. 

Mycroft was at the threshold of the room when he paused and lifted his hand. Everyone else stopped and regarded him. His expression weary, he spoke softly to them, gesturing his hands. He seemed to be making some request. The suit barely concealed his impatience, but he shrugged in resignation. One of the security officers pulled something out of his back pocket. It was a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Mycroft daintily withdrew a cigarette, took the lighter, and then stepped over to the window overlooking the air strip. The suit made a gesture to the guard that clearly meant he should watch Mycroft to make sure that he doesn’t take off, then he and the other guard disappeared into the room. 

Greg felt a flood of tenderness overwhelm him. Mycroft clearly wasn’t looking forward to what was to come, and had requested a moment to fortify himself. He hesitated, wondering if he should approach Mycroft now or wait until after his debriefing. Would he want Greg to see him in this state? He watched as Mycroft placed the cigarette between his lips, and felt a twitch of envy at the rush of nicotine that Mycroft would soon feel permeating his lungs. Except…when Mycroft went to use the lighter, the shaking of his hands prevented him from successfully producing a flame. 

_He’s not as strong as he thinks he is._ Without further conscious thought, Greg crossed the room. Mycroft was so fixated on trying to trigger the lighter that he didn’t notice when Greg was standing right in front of him. His expression was bleak, and his shaking seemed to increase with each failure of the striking mechanism. Greg reached out and placed his hands over Mycroft’s, gently squeezing. 

Mycroft’s tremors stopped immediately. He looked up with haunted eyes, and for a moment Greg was at a loss for words. For some reason he was reminded of when Sherlock came back from exile. He’d crept up on Greg as he was lighting a cigarette, making a flippant remark about it. As if the last time they’d spoken was two minutes ago and not two bloody years. 

Tired as he was, Greg found himself speaking the same words out loud, parroting Mycroft’s brother in some vain hope that he would get the joke, or at least appreciate the absurdity of them. “Those things will kill you.” 

Mycroft stared at him, the cigarette dangling precariously from his soft lips, and Greg lifted his eyes away from them so he wouldn’t be distracted. He gazed steadily back at Mycroft, hoping to convey with a look how much he wanted Mycroft to feel like he could lean on him, let go with him, let Greg be a rock for him. It must have worked, because Mycroft launched forward and flung his arms around him. After a brief moment of shock, Greg was wrapping his own arms around Mycroft, holding him tightly as he shook in his arms.

He wasn’t crying, Greg could tell by the way he breathed. No sobs, just loudly inhaling and exhaling through his nose in an attempt to calm himself as he drew strength from Greg’s embrace. Greg didn’t speak, he had a feeling that it would possibly make things worse if he said anything. He just continued to hold on, his fingers curling tightly into Mycroft’s suit jacket.

*

Mycroft tried desperately to stop shaking. Lestrade was _here_. What was he doing here? When Mycroft had last spoken with him, he was still at Musgrave Hall. Mycroft tensed for a moment, wondering if he was here to deliver bad news in person. But no, the expression on his face just before Mycroft embarrassingly collapsed into his arms had not been the ‘bearer of bad news’ type. It was one that said, ‘I am here for you.’ Which was why Mycroft had caved so alarmingly to the desperate need to be held by him. 

It was a mistake. He needed to be in control of himself, he was about to be interrogated by MI5. He knew what to expect, he’d been on the other side of the table often enough. He absolutely could not fall to pieces, he had to be strong. 

Mycroft was startled out of his misgivings by the sound of Lestrade murmuring something. Words of comfort, he realised. To his surprise, it seemed to be working. He started to feel some of the tension drain from him. And when Lestrade’s hand shifted up his back and squeezed his neck, all the tremors stopped completely. Mycroft let out a little sigh. Perhaps he had been wrong, then? Perhaps letting Lestrade be strong for him wasn’t making him weak, but just the opposite.

When Lestrade suggested they go sit down for a moment, Mycroft decided that MI5 could wait a few more minutes. He let Lestrade lead him over to the row of seats in the passenger waiting area. Realising that he still had a cigarette between his lips, he carefully extracted it and chucked it in a nearby bin. “I am a bit curious how you obtained entrance to this air field, Detective Inspector.”

Lestrade smiled. “Your brother called Anthea and arranged it. I don’t think he was satisfied with only vague assurances over the phone. He asked me to come check on you in person.”

Mycroft lifted his chin, ignoring the flicker of disappointment. “I see. So you’re here as a favour to my brother.”

Lestrade gave him a reproachful look. “More like I was bloody grateful he gave me the excuse to come.” Mycroft’s eyes widened, and Lestrade’s expression turned sheepish. “I wanted to see for myself, alright? They told me everything that happened to you, and I couldn’t reconcile it with your breezy tone when I spoke to you over the phone. No one can make it through that ordeal undisturbed. Not even you.”

Mycroft felt wrong-footed. “I don’t understand, Detective Inspector. I suppose it makes sense you wouldn’t believe I’m as fine as I pretended to be. But coming all this way to gauge my state of mind in person… That’s the act of someone wh-who cares.”

Lestrade looked away. Softly, he said, “We’ve know each other for years, Mycroft. Of course I care.”

Mycroft’s heart threatened a massive retreat. “Knowing and caring don’t always go hand in hand, Detective Inspector…”

“Would you please call me Greg?” Lestrade looked back at him. “I’ve never said anything before, but I’ve always wanted to get to know you better. You’re brilliant like Sherlock, but not as much of a loose cannon, and that appeals to me. I never asked you to go for a pint, because…well, you don’t seem like the pint type. And I wasn’t too sure if you were the friendship type, either. So, I figured I’d wait until a moment when it might happen organically.” Lestrade…_Greg_…shrugged, then huffed out a laugh. “I guess Sherlock must have deduced all this because tonight he gave me the shove I needed. Told me in so many words that you might welcome a friend.” His expression turned apprehensive. “Was he right?”

Mycroft inwardly squirmed as he remembered a conversation a few years ago where Sherlock was unconvinced by Mycroft’s claims that he wasn’t lonely. At the time he’d thought it revenge for his crack about Sherlock’s virginity. In a falsely casual tone he said, “Sherlock’s not always right about everything. But…in this I suppose he is. I…would welcome your friendship, Det…Greg.”

Greg’s smile seemed to light up all the remaining corners of darkness. “Well, then! I guess we’re friends, now. It only took, what? Over a decade?” He chuckled and Mycroft couldn’t help but laugh with him. “Look, I know these MI5 suits have to warm you over a bit. I want you to know that I’ll be here if you need me, and when you’re done I’m gonna make sure you get home okay.”

Mycroft coloured, “I appreciate the offer, Greg, but I’ll be fine.”

Greg gave him a stern look. “This is for my own peace of mind, Mycroft. I won’t be able to sleep well tonight until I’m sure that you’ve made it to your own bed safe and sound.”

Mycroft felt his neck flush as he suppressed the wild desire to ask Greg just how he was planning to ensure that he makes it into his bed. “Thank you, Greg. I do appreciate it. I don’t know how long this ordeal is going to take, but it means a lot that you will be out here at the end of it.” 

Greg reached over and put his hand on Mycroft’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze. Even through multiple layers, the feel of Greg’s fingers caused goosebumps to form. Mycroft began to feel like he would make it through the rest of this night after all. He wasn’t as sure about how he was going to survive becoming actual _friends_ with this wonderful, attractive, devastating man.

*

Over the next three months, Greg felt truly humbled to be the one person - the only one it seemed - that Mycroft wanted to spend time with. He’d never though it was possible in all the years that he’d barely known Mycroft, but the other man was actually letting him _in_. When they weren’t meeting up as they usually did to discuss Sherlock, they were having dinner together, or Greg would pop into the Diogenes club for a drink. 

Sherlock, for reasons that Greg couldn’t begin to guess, never made any sharp remarks about their friendship. In fact, he found ways to move it along. One night during a stakeout when they were all bored to tears, Sherlock began joking with John about the prank they played on Mycroft to get him to confess about their sister. Greg didn’t think it was that funny, but he did take notice when Sherlock commented that their little drama had interrupted Mycroft’s quiet evening watching film noir. It didn’t seem a coincidence that Sherlock just happened to drop this little tidbit a week before a film noir festival. Greg ended up taking Mycroft and they had a fabulous time. 

Greg hoped that his company was helping Mycroft through the aftermath of Eurus’s awful plan. Mycroft’s professional reputation suffered a blow from the role he played in such a massive security breach. He was put in charge of cleaning up the mess and devising new security measures, not that MI5 had much choice about his involvement - they were still prohibited from going to the island. He also had to deal with the cover up, warned by the PM that if the public got even a whiff of what sort of danger they’d been in, there would be hell to pay. 

Then there were his parents. Mycroft had shared with Greg (after several glasses of scotch) their reaction to the news that their daughter wasn’t dead after all. Greg had given him words of sympathy, but Mycroft shook his head and said he deserved it for the mistake he made. Then he looked into Greg’s eyes and asked him if he agreed that it was a mistake. Greg scowled into his scotch. “Honestly, I dunno what I would have done if I’d been you. I can’t even fathom being in that position. And you were so young, _Christ_.”

Mycroft gave him a sad smile. “You absolutely think it was a mistake. It’s okay, Greg. At least you didn’t call me an idiot boy.”

Greg wanted to shoot up from his chair at that moment and haul Mycroft to his feet and snog him until every painful memory washed away. And that was the problem, wasn’t it? Greg should have felt content to be in such a privileged position of friendship, to get to see the real Mycroft without his armour. But it wasn’t enough. Greg wanted more. He didn’t want to just peel back the façade. He wanted to get under his skin. Mycroft was an attractive man under any circumstance. But a Mycroft that was soft, engaging, and looked at Greg like he was a gift…that Mycroft was irresistible. 

The thing was, as much as Greg was getting to know Mycroft, the one thing he couldn’t figure out was what Mycroft wanted. Or didn’t want, given that he’s shown no indication of returning Greg’s interest. Did he not like men? Did he like men, but not Greg? Did he not do sex at all? Or relationships? If so, was that a personal preference or consequence of his professional life? There were so many possible reasons, and Greg was too afraid to bring any of it up in case he was soundly rejected and shown the door. 

Probably he just wanted friendship, nothing more. Greg had discovered early on in this endeavour that Mycroft craved companionship like anyone else. In the past he’d just limited himself to occasionally irritating his brother, but Sherlock had less time for him these days. When he wasn’t caught up in The Work, he divided his time between John, Rosie, and Eurus. He’d come out of his ordeal with a new outlook, more in touch with his emotions, and it was doing wonders for his “friendship” with John. 

As for Eurus…Greg wondered if it hurt Mycroft that Sherlock showed more dedication and enthusiasm towards staying connected to his sister than he had his brother. Obviously Sherlock was making up for all those years that were lost. But what about all the years he wasted ignoring Mycroft? Perhaps that was Sherlock’s motive for pushing Greg in his direction. 

One evening, Greg headed over to Mycroft’s flat even though he was absolutely knackered from a case he just closed. Part of him desperately wanted to go home and put himself to bed, but this dinner had been rescheduled twice already due to one or the other of them having things come up. He hadn’t seen Mycroft in two weeks and he missed him badly. When Mycroft opened his door, Greg could see immediately that his day must have been equally exhausting and found himself wanting to put _him_ to bed. Shaking off that thought, he followed Mycroft into his study where he poured the two of them a scotch. 

Mycroft sat down in his favourite chair, lines of weariness etched into his face. “I have no intention of postponing dinner yet again, Greg. But would you mind terribly if we order in?”

Greg gave him a warm look, and shook his head. “Takeaway sounds like heaven right about now. Do you have any menus or should I check my mobile?”

Mycroft took a sip of scotch and sighed, closing his eyes. “I have some on my refrigerator. I’ll go fetch them in a moment.”

Greg stood up. “Nah, you stay here. I’ll get them.” He squeezed Mycroft’s shoulder on his way out of the study. 

Greg made his way to the stark kitchen that he’s only gotten a glimpse of the few times he’s been here. He went over to the fridge where a handful of menus were affixed with magnets. As he grasped a menu, removing the magnet, a card fluttered to the ground. He picked it up and saw the name Alicia Smallwood and contact details. He placed it back on the fridge, and took the menus with him into the study.

When their dinners were ordered, they sat back to continue sipping their scotch as they waited for their food to be delivered. “When I was getting the menus off the fridge, I noticed a card stuck there. The name looked familiar…Smallwood. Isn’t she in Parliament?”

Mycroft exhaled through his nose, his expression thoughtful. “Yes, indeed. Lady Smallwood is a colleague of mine. We work together frequently on projects. I forgot she gave me her card. It was right before…” He waved his hand, presumably meaning Sherrinford.

Greg’s brow furrowed. “If you work together, why is she giving you her card?”

Mycroft huffed out a laugh. “I wondered the same thing. It’s her private number. She said I might want a drink some time and refused to elaborate.” Greg felt his heart drop and he carefully kept his expression neutral. Mycroft shrugged one shoulder. “I put the card on my fridge so that I could puzzle out what she meant.”

Greg gave him an incredulous look. “Puzzle out…what are you talking about? It’s obvious, innit?”

Mycroft’s eyebrows raised. “Obvious? You’re saying you took her meaning?”

Greg was completely bewildered. “When someone gives you their number and suggests a drink, there is only one meaning.”

Mycroft scowled, “Put that way, I suppose you mean a date. If it were anyone else, I would concur. But this is Lady Smallwood. She would never ask me on a date. _Me?_ The very notion is preposterous, which is why I dismissed it before it even reached the conscious level of my mind. There must be some other motive…”

Greg lifted his hand and began to massage his forehead. “For Christ’s sake, Mycroft, not everything in your life has to be intrigue. She _fancies you_. And why wouldn’t she? You’re attractive, presumably you two get along, _and_ you’re uniquely positioned to understand her lifestyle. If she’s feeling lonely and wanting companionship, I imagine you’re the most eligible person she knows.”

Mycroft stared at him incredulously. “_Me_? A-attractive?”

Greg smiled, despite himself. “You are, you know. Quite good-looking. If it weren’t for the walls you put up against everyone...she must be very lonely if she was willing to breach that fortress of yours.”

Mycroft looked away, fidgeting with his glass. Greg could see a flush rising up his neck and felt a responding heat under his own skin. “Greg, that…look, you don’t understand. Lady Smallwood and I…it’s too absurd. It had to have been a code of some sort. She must want to start a top secret project, or an investigation, and she has to be careful of watchful eyes. That’s all it is.”

Greg wasn’t able to suppress a laugh. “Ah, Mycroft, you really are something. I get that you and Sherlock value the function of your brains over everything else, but it’s just not like that with other people. Even people as frightfully intelligent as Lady Smallwood. We have needs…urges.” Mycroft flushed even deeper. “Not just sexual urges, though that’s certainly part of it. We crave companionship, someone to talk to at the end of the day, the comfort of knowing that someone cares about us.”

Mycroft’s forehead wrinkled slightly. “So a romantic relationship is similar to a friendship like…what we have? With the addition of sex?”

Greg felt his skin prickling at the implication of his question. “Have you not been in one before?”

Mycroft lifted his chin. “Greg, I’ve never had so much as a friend until you. Though I have had sex.” He looked away and took a very large gulp from his scotch. “In university I was curious what the whole fuss was about. I wasn’t very impressed. My career was much more interesting and so I focused on The Work.”

Greg took a deep breath, humbled as always that Mycroft was willing to share such intimate details with him. “Well, then, to answer your question…there’s a lot more to it than friendship plus sex. What draws people to romantic relationships…well, I suppose what draws _me_ to seeking them out…is the desire for something more. For one thing, with friends you don’t get that skin to skin contact. I’m talking about cuddling on the sofa while you watch a movie, having a nice lengthy snogging session, waking up in bed together. God, Mycroft, there’s no better feeling than to have a lie in on a Sunday morning. To feel their heartbeat, your bare legs tangled together, whispering soft words into each other’s skin.”

Mycroft stared at him, apparently rendered speechless, and Greg wondered if he was sounding maudlin. After a few moments, Mycroft started blinking rapidly. “I-I see. That sounds…compelling when you put it like that. And you think Lady Smallwood is craving this…with _me_?”

Greg gave him a fond smile that he hoped masked the churning in his gut. “I think it’s the most likely scenario, yes. Occam’s Razor and all that. Look, you said you haven’t pursued relationships because of your work, yes?”

Mycroft nodded. “My career obligations would be off-putting to most people. It would take someone very special to think I’d be worth the aggravation, and that doesn’t seem likely to happen.”

Greg stared at him aghast before making a scoffing noise. “Of course you’re worth it, you berk! I mean, look at me.” He flushed as Mycroft gave him quizzical look. “Both of our schedules have made it really difficult for us to spend time together. But our friendship _has_ been worth it. Take tonight for instance. With the day I’ve had, if it had been anyone else I was to meet up with, I’d have bailed on them. But I wanted to see you, and that’s a fact. So stop this ridiculous idea that your career would get in the way of a relationship. Not if you really wanted it.” 

Greg took a deep breath and steeled himself. “In fact, that’s all the more reason for you to call Lady Smallwood and go have that drink with her. I mean, if she’s drawn to you because you can understand the demands of her profession, then obviously it’s the same in reverse. She more than anyone would get it, right?”

Mycroft frowned into his scotch. “Greg, there’s…” The doorbell rang. He blinked, looking wrong-footed for a moment, then huffed out a laugh. “Saved by the bell. None too soon, I’m famished.” He stood up, pasting a polite smile on his face. “I…think it best to table this discussion for another time. I-I need to think about what it all means.”

Greg stood as well, nodding. “Right, I get it. It’s a lot to take in.”

Mycroft gave a hesitant nod, then headed for the door. Greg followed, trying to quell the feeling of dread that he was about to lose something very special.

*

The dilemma of Lady Smallwood provided enough of a distraction that Mycroft didn’t dwell too long on the myriad of emotions churned up by the discussion with Greg on relationships. He was too busy cursing himself for not having noticed the change in Lady Smallwood’s demeanor since she gave him her card. Now that he knew the real reason for it, the reason for the behaviour shift was obvious – she believed she was being rejected. 

Mycroft greatly revered her as a professional ally, and he admired and respected her. The last thing he wanted to do was to hurt her, or put their working relationship in jeopardy. He spent a week considering his options. He knew what she was like when it came to work. Whenever she proposed something and he was not amenable, she preferred it when he was direct and to the point. “Don’t sugarcoat it, Holmes!” Therefore, it would be logical to just go up to her and apologise for waiting so long to respond, explain that he truly had not realised the intent of it, and then kindly break it to her that he was very, very gay. 

The thing was that people tended to react differently when they were being rejected on a personal level. In this case there was evidence of that, given her frostiness recently. It was possible that if he were to bring it up in order to dash whatever hope she might still have, that would only make things worse. It seemed to Mycroft that it would be better if she found out by happenstance that she didn’t stand a chance, with no reference made whatsoever to her proposition. 

But that led to another sticking point – his sexuality had never come up organically in all the years they’ve known each other. Even after pondering it for days, Mycroft could not think of a way to work it into conversation that would not be met with suspicion. For once he wished for some scandal about a politician being caught with the pool boy. 

In the end, the idea he came up with…he admitted to himself it bordered on being farcical. But he was starting to feel desperate, especially after Lady Smallwood rejected one of his project proposals that he was sure she might have approved if she weren’t feeling piqued. Mycroft enlisted the help of his assistant Anthea for the charade. She listened to his absurd instructions with an expression as smooth as glass, and he mentally upped her Christmas bonus. 

Whenever he was in long meetings with colleagues, Anthea would periodically come in to refresh beverages, take instruction, or bring a stack of documents for Mycroft’s perusal or signature. Mycroft waited for a day when it was just he and Lady Smallwood sequestered in his office to have Anthea present him with a form for declaring an intimate partner. It was a common enough document for someone at Mycroft’s security level - any such person would have to have a background check and be given protection. 

Mycroft held up the form, feigning confusion. “Why are you bringing me this?”

On cue, Anthea primly reminded him that it was part of her duties as his assistant to have him fill out the form once he’s entered a serious relationship. Letting his scowl deepen, and pretending not to notice that Lady Smallwood’s gaze had sharpened, he asked Anthea who she imagined he was dating. 

“Detective Inspector Lestrade, of course. You have been seeing him more and more these past few months. When you postponed that meeting with the PM to have dinner with him, that signaled to me that it has become quite serious.”

Arranging his face into a moue of regret, Mycroft said with a sigh, “Yes, I can see how you might have got that impression. Alas, we are _only_ friends.” 

Anthe raised her eyebrows. “Are you sure he sees it that way, sir? He always seems quite eager to spend time with you.” 

He raised his eyebrows. Anthea was going off script. Perhaps she thought the point wasn’t getting across and they needed to be more blatant. He cleared his throat. “Need I remind you that he was married to a woman? He would not believe we are dating, because _he_ is not gay.” There, hopefully that was more clear. 

Anthea lifted her chin. “He could be bisexual.” 

Mycroft felt irritation at her continued improvisation, and a flicker of alarm at the hope it gave him. He hadn’t considered the possibility of bisexuality. He gave Anthea a quelling look. “Lestrade’s dating history would say otherwise.”

Lady Smallwood chimed in at this point. “You keep track of your friend’s dating history?”

Mycroft gave her a pained smile. “Lestrade is an associate of Sherlock’s, so I had surveillance on him for years before we became friends. Obviously the people he dated were included in the reports, and they were all women.” He said this in Anthea’s direction, and she took that as her cue to leave the room. 

Lady Smallwood gave him a look of amusement tinged with regret. “I didn’t know you were gay.”

Mycroft felt palpable relief that it was finally out. “Since I have not been in the habit of forming romantic relationships, I kept it on a need to know basis. Anthea had to know because she is always keeping her ear out for any rumours about me, especially anything malicious.”

Lady Smallwood tilted her head to the side. “She seems to think that there’s something more to your relationship with this Lestrade person. You wish it were true.”

Mycroft held up the form. “Wishful thinking.” He crumpled it into a ball and then set it aside. Now that he’d performed his little one act play, they could get back to work.


	2. Chapter 2

Another week went by, and Mycroft felt a restlessness under his skin that he knew wouldn’t go away until he’d seen Greg again. But he found that despite the sensation being there, he couldn’t bring himself to take the initiative and set something up. He was also (quite illogically) miffed by the fact that Greg hadn’t been in touch with him, either. Mycroft had a very good reason for his reluctance to see Greg. All those lovely words about romantic relationships and skin to skin contact and Sunday morning cuddles. It was unbearably cruel of Greg to make him yearn for such things, and then encourage Mycroft to pursue them with _someone else_. So what could possibly be the reason for Greg’s reticence? He was probably quite pleased with his bout of matchmaking.

An unwelcome thought occurred to Mycroft. What if all that talk had reminded Greg that he was missing out on it himself, and so he’s been occupied pursuing female companionship? Mycroft felt his throat constrict. It was a very real possibility. Of its own volition, his hand snatched up his mobile, ready to call Greg and set something up for every evening he had free. He knew such a notion was ridiculous. Greg’s free time wasn’t like a dance card that one could fill up. Mycroft tried to recall what measures Sherlock used to take with John’s dates that first year they lived together. 

Mycroft set his mobile down, pushing it away from him firmly. This was absurd. He put his head in his hands, and then flinched when the mobile vibrated against the table. He snatched it up, huffing out a laugh when he saw it was a text from Greg.

-Finished up a crime scene earlier than expected. Free for dinner?

Mycroft stared at the screen. As it happened, he was free. Perhaps seeing Greg would counteract the strange unsettled feelings he’d been having since their last dinner. He started to text a restaurant where they could meet, but decided instead to have Greg stop at the Diogenes first for a drink, and they could decide together where they would go. A little liquid courage to ease their way back into normality. 

Mycroft pressed send, feeling utterly defeated. He had absolutely _no idea_ what he was doing. He’d spent so much of his life building walls around his heart, guarding against feeling too much for anyone, that he hadn’t equipped himself for the eventuality of someone knocking down those walls. 

As he waited for Greg to make his way across town, he allowed himself to finally face what it was that has been bothering him for two weeks: the death of hope. The thing was, he never had any expectation of his friendship with Greg turning into something more. Certainly he _wanted_ more. How could he not? When he wasn’t careful, he found himself contemplating the softness of Greg’s eyes or the rumble of his voice or the quiet acceptance that radiated from him. Such musings were a waste of energy, so he always nipped them in the bud. It was a fine line he tread - allowing enough intimacy for the friendship to thrive, while choking off any desire for more. 

Then their discussion of Lady Smallwood took place. It made Mycroft realise that while he’d been focusing on suppressing how much he _wanted_ a relationship with Greg, he hadn’t paid attention to how much he _hoped_ it would happen. Apparently this hope had been growing without his knowledge or consent, fed by all the lovely attention that Greg paid to him. Hope that was now shattered. 

Greg would not have encouraged Mycroft to date Lady Smallwood if he wanted that honour for himself. In fact, there was a small part of him that was terrified Greg made such a point of it because he suspected Mycroft’s regard and wanted to gently steer him in another direction. That would explain the lack of communication for so many days. Mycroft couldn’t fault him, given that he just went through similar acrobatics with Lady Smallwood in order to spare her feelings.

The place inside of him where hope had been taking up space now felt hollow. Mycroft would have to find a way to fill it, as well as reinforce it so that he could continue to be friends with Greg without this nonsense happening again. 

Mycroft’s musings were interrupted by Wilder, who announced Greg’s arrival. When his gorgeous silver-haired friend entered the room, Mycroft’s breath caught at the warm smile bestowed upon him. “Mycroft! I’m really glad you were free tonight.”

Mycroft pressed a glass of scotch into his hand. “I too am glad that you had some unexpected time off. Was it Sherlock’s doing?”

Greg grinned as he sat down. “Nah, would you believe it was Donovan that cracked it for us? I keep telling the Chief to promote her to detective inspector.” His smile dimmed.

“You think something is holding him back?”

Greg shrugged one shoulder. “It’s an ugly thought, and I hope I’m wrong. Sally’s been dating another woman about a year now. I’ve been seeing coldness towards her that didn’t used to be there.”

Mycroft’s brows drew together. “Perhaps someone needs to have a word with the top brass at the Met.”

Greg gave a cynical huff, then looked up quickly, his eyes widened slightly and Mycroft knew he’d taken his meaning. After a moment he nodded. “Yeah, it would be nice if they were reminded not to take their best officers for granted. Loyalty, skill, and hard work are not easy to come by.”

Mycroft gave him an indulgent look and encouraged Greg to tell how Donovan had solved the case. The story took them through their first glass of scotch. As Mycroft was at the drinks cart pouring another, he heard Greg behind him ask softly, “Speaking of drinks…have you asked out Lady Smallwood?” 

Mycroft closed his eyes briefly, then turned around and went back to where Greg was sitting. He sat down and took a calming breath. “I won’t be asking Lady Smallwood out on a date. Women are…not my area.”

Greg paused with his glass almost to his lips, his expression blank. He set the glass back down. “You’re gay?” He blinked several times. “Well, now I feel like a prat, trying to get you to go out with her. Why didn’t you say something about it then?”

Mycroft bristled. “It’s precisely _because_ you were trying to set us up. People who automatically presume others to be heterosexual often do not like to be corrected. I realise now, after what you said about Sergeant Donovan, that you’re perhaps more open-minded.”

Greg scowled. “Oi, I never presume anyone’s sexuality. I mean, I sometimes use social cues to make a guess. In this case it was the fact that you had her phone number on your fridge.”

Mycroft glowered. “I told you why…”

Greg held up a hand. “I know, I know. You didn’t know what she was doing. In hindsight that was the most obvious clue. I’m sorry I made you uncomfortable, Mycroft. I honestly don’t usually take someone’s preferences for granted. I’m bisexual myself, and I know all too well how it feels when people make assumptions.”

Mycroft startled, his glass almost slipping from his hand. “Y-you’re bisexual?”

Greg gave him a small smile. “What, you hadn’t deduced it?”

Mycroft shook his head dazedly. Greg _liked men_! “I’m afraid I too have been using social cues in this instance. Your recent history of romantic partners.”

Greg’s mouth turned down. “I knew when I joined the Met that I’d have to be careful about that sort of thing. Look at what Sal’s going through right now. It wasn’t so much that I was never gonna date a man…I just figured he’d have to be worth it, you know? Someone so special that the bigots wouldn’t matter. But I mean, how you gonna find out someone’s worth it unless you date them? It’s a catch 22.”

Mycroft’s eyes dropped to his drink. “I suppose you would have to get to know them under other circumstances.” Greg gave him a cryptic smile, and then asked what cuisine he was in the mood for. Clearly the subject was closed. 

Mycroft wasn’t even sure he had an appetite, now that he knew Greg was attracted to men and holding out for ‘someone special.’ Given the fact that he hasn’t dated a man in the many years that he’s worked for Scotland Yard, the bar was clearly set pretty damn high. Resignedly, Mycroft suggested Indian. Perhaps if his mouth was burning from vindaloo, he wouldn’t say something stupid like ask Greg exactly what his criteria was and did he ever stand a chance of meeting it.

*

Greg didn’t know what he thought he was doing inviting Mycroft up to his flat on the pretence of settling an argument about the Fifth Doctor. They hadn’t been able to find anything in a google search, so Greg pointed out that he had the episode in question on DVD. But he knew that this wasn’t really about the Doctor. At least for him it wasn’t. He needed answers, and he wasn’t about to ask the bloody questions at Mycroft’s club or a restaurant. 

Mycroft was gay. He had no interest in Lady Smallwood. Was he interested in anyone? Because a preference in men did not translate to a desire for a relationship. Or it could, but not a desire for one with a worn-down copper. _Christ_. Did he have the courage to ask? Well, he _might_. If they were alone. Hence the pretext of bloody Doctor Who. Did Mycroft suspect? He hadn’t understood the significance of Lady Smallwood’s suggestion of drinks. 

When they got to his flat, Greg poured them both some wine. Mycroft settled onto the sofa as Greg went over to his bookcase to sort through his DVD collection. Just as he’d found the one he was looking for, he heard Mycroft’s mobile buzz. That was interesting, Mycroft very rarely got texts. Greg turned in curiosity and watched Mycroft pull out his mobile and frown at the screen. He raised his head, giving Greg a bewildered look. “It’s from Sherlock. He’s wondering what I’m playing at with Lady Smallwood. How did he know about that?”

Greg felt the skin on his neck flush hot. “Umm…John must have told him.” Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “We went out for a few pints last night, and um…the subject came up.” Greg closed his eyes at the memory of getting rat-arsed and confessing to John that he was falling for Mycroft, and it was never going to happen because he’ll probably marry Lady Smallwood and they’ll run the country together.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “Why in the world would _that_ be a topic of conversation…in a _pub_?”

It was the perfect opening to telling Mycroft about his feelings for him. Greg opened his mouth to speak, but quailed when he saw the spots of colour on Mycroft’s cheeks. He looked very agitated. “Well, I mean…I might have been feeling a bit like…well… Sometimes when people start dating, they neglect their friends. I mean, it’s just the way it is, you only have so much free time. And you hadn’t called me to meet up in over a week, so I thought…maybe you and she had…well, I thought you were too busy with her to see me. So…” He shrugged, feeling stupid. All that angst he was feeling last night, and it turned out Mycroft wasn’t even remotely interested in her.

Mycroft’s expression softened. “Greg… I’m sorry you felt that way. Well, now you don’t have to worry.”

Greg bit his lip. This was getting out of hand, he needed to just say it. Mycroft’s mobile buzzed again, and Greg stiffened. Bloody hell, what was Sherlock saying now? How much did John tell him? Mycroft looked down at the screen. He stared at it for a long, long time. 

In a soft voice, Mycroft read the screen. “I didn’t give Lestrade to you so that you would hurt him. He’s had enough of that from his ex-wife.”

Fuck! A myriad of emotions swirled through Greg. Sherlock…_gave_ him to Mycroft. And now he was admonishing his brother for not treating his _gift_ well. Greg should be angry at so much presumption, but all he could feel was warmth at such a…a _Sherlockian_ attempt to nurture them. But, at the same time he was mortified wondering how Mycroft was going to interpret this text.

Indeed, Mycroft’s gaze was piercing, and Greg shivered at being taken apart with one look. “He equated me with your ex. Implied that my dating Lady Smallwood would be _cheating_.” He stared at Greg some more, and he could see Mycroft’s wheels turning. “Some might think that Sherlock has as poor a grasp of relationships as I do, but they would be wrong. He learnt his lesson on that point when John married someone else. Sherlock clearly believes we are together romantically, or on our way to becoming so.” Greg was quite sure his entire face was brick red at this point. Mycroft held up his mobile. “Apparently he 'gave you to me' with that expectation.” He took a deep breath, and Greg thought he heard a slight tremor. “Sherlock wouldn’t have done such a thing…unless he was quite sure of your feelings.”

Greg felt a squeezing sensation in his lungs. “And yours,” he breathed, and saw Mycroft’s carefully controlled expression crack a little.

Lifting his chin, Mycroft asked softly, “Are you going to say Sherlock's deduction was wrong?”

Holding his gaze, Greg retorted, “Are you?”

Mycroft looked away, and Greg could see his breath hitching. He felt his own breathing grow unsteady. Mycroft swallowed and brought his gaze back to Greg’s. “The only time I've seen my brother wrong about something was…when he couldn't see John's feelings for him. It was too personal, and the stakes were too high. He described it as a crack in his high-powered lens. I am now realising that my view has been similarly obstructed. Can it really be possible that you might share the same...desires…as me?”

All of Mycroft’s pretence of a cool façade was now gone, replaced with aching vulnerability. Greg felt like such a jerk. Mycroft shouldn’t have been the one responsible for admitting his feelings. Sherlock clearly had expected Greg to be the brave one by asking him to look after his brother, and he’d promised he would take care of him. Instead he had kept Mycroft at arms-length, thinking that if Mycroft wanted him, he would be forthright as always. Clearly he’d missed the point of Sherlock’s words to him. _He’s not as strong as he thinks he is. _

Greg went over to the sofa, and sat down next Mycroft, close enough for their thighs to press together. “I do, Mycroft. Christ, I feel like I spend every waking moment desiring you.” He reached his hand up and cupped Mycroft’s cheek, gently sliding his thumb across the slight stubble. Mycroft closed his eyes, and the stiffness with which he’d held himself melted away. “May I kiss you?”

Mycroft opened his eyes. “_Please_.” Greg didn’t hesitate another second, he leaned over and pressed his lips to Mycroft’s. They both slightly exhaled, and Greg knew that they were each thinking the same thing: _finally_. Greg tilted his head so he could deepen the kiss, sliding the fingers that had been cupping Mycroft’s cheek into his hair. He could feel Mycroft’s hands rest tentatively on his waist. Greg put his other hand on Mycroft’s chest, sliding his fingers beneath his waistcoat. Mycroft and his bloody layers. Greg wanted to peel them all away, both the clothes and the layers surrounding his heart. 

When he felt the tip of Mycroft’s tongue touching his lips, it sent a spike of arousal to his cock and he groaned as he opened his mouth to let Mycroft explore. He abandoned his perusal of Mycroft’s chest to circle his arm around the back of his neck so that their bodies could press together more tightly. Mycroft seemed to have the same idea because his hands left his waist and slid up his back, urging him closer.

The way this was escalating, Greg would have Mycroft flat on his back in minutes. As much as he wanted that, he had to consider what Mycroft told him about his sexual experiences. Reluctantly he broke the kiss and pulled away. Mycroft made a sound of protest, leaning forward to recapture his lips, before stopping himself. He blushed a lovely shade of pink. “I-I apologise. Was I being too aggressive?”

Greg carded his fingers through Mycroft’s hair. “No, of course not, love.” Mycroft’s blush deepened. “I stopped before things got out of hand because I want you to know that sex isn’t a requirement for me. I just want to be with you in whatever way makes us both comfortable.”

Mycroft’s brow furrowed and Greg could feel him tense up. “You…don’t want to have sex?”

Greg gently massaged Mycroft’s shoulder. “I’m saying, if _you_ don’t want to. When we talked about it before, it seemed like you weren’t into it. And I don’t want you going along with it just for my sake.”

Mycroft huffed out a laugh, and he seemed to relax. “Darling Greg. It’s true that I didn’t particularly enjoy it, but…I’m quite sure it was because I felt nothing for the men I was with. They weren’t lovers in the true sense of the word. I already know it will be different with you. Every time you’ve touched me, whether it’s shaking hands or a pat on the back or one of your glorious hugs, I’ve felt a thrill go through me that makes me crave more. I want as much as you’ll give me.”

Greg felt relief surge through him and he pulled Mycroft in for another kiss. “Myc, I want to give you everything. God, is it too soon to ask if we could…?”

Mycroft’s eyes flashed something hot and electric. “Greg, we have known each other for years, and for all intents and purposes we’ve been dating for _months_ now. Please take me to bed.”

Greg was shaking as he stood and pulled Mycroft up from the sofa. He led the way back to his bedroom, glad they were in his flat because he doubted Mycroft would have what they needed. Or was he being presumptuous again? 

Greg turned to Mycroft and took his hand, threading their fingers together. “I really want to make this special for you, Mycroft. You say that when I touch you, it makes you crave more. Do you ever think about what ‘more’ means to you?”

Mycroft nodded. “My…previous partners…they all had a preference for me to top. I think what attracted them to me was how I like to take charge of things. I had a knack for wielding power over people, even then.” His smile was self-deprecating.

Greg reached up with his hand and tenderly traced his finger over Mycroft’s jawline. “But you don’t want to be like that in the bedroom.” It wasn’t a question, and Mycroft’s eyes showed relief that he understood. “You want to be taken care of. You want to be _taken_.” Mycroft shuddered. “You want me to press you down into the mattress, fill you up, make you beg.” 

Mycroft made a little choking noise. “_Greg_, please!”

Greg’s lips curved into a smile as he felt his blood singing through his veins. “See, you’re already doing it and I haven’t even got you naked yet. Let’s start with that. I’m going to undress you, like I’ve been dying to for ages.”

Greg circled around Mycroft till he was behind him, and reached out to grasp Mycroft’s jacket, tugging it off his shoulders. He draped it across a chair. “I’ve had so many fantasies that involve taking off this armour of yours.” He circled back around and unbuttoned the waistcoat, slipping that off his shoulders as well. “All these posh things protecting you against the world.” He unbuttoned Mycroft’s shirt. “But they won’t protect you from me, will they?” The shirt soon joined the rest on the chair. He ran his hand up and down the soft cotton vest that was the last layer.

“Oh, look at this.” He took Mycroft’s arm, which was now bare. “Freckles.” He glanced up at Mycroft, giving him a delighted smile.

Mycroft grimaced. “I’m afraid to say I’m covered in them.”

Greg’s smile widened. “You just made me the happiest man alive.” Mycroft blushed, clearly bewildered that anyone would find freckles attractive. 

Greg chuckled as he reached down to undo Mycroft’s belt. Soon he had Mycroft stepping out of his trousers, and he groaned at the sight of Mycroft’s endlessly long legs. Just the thought of them wrapped around his hips nearly had him undone. 

Now that Mycroft was down to his vest and pants, he looked more vulnerable than Greg had ever seen him. And it was clear by the apprehension in his eyes that he felt that way. Greg gently pushed him back until he was sitting on the bed and continued to guide him until he was reclined. “I know you said that you didn’t want to be the one in charge in the bedroom. But I just have to say it, Myc. You really do have all the power here. You are so beautiful right now, and the way you’re looking at me…darlin, I would do anything you asked. _Anything_.”

Mycroft huffed out a laugh, and some of the uneasiness left his eyes. “Then I ask that you take off those clothes and join me. I’m feeling a bit lonely.”

Greg gave him a mock affronted look. “You should never be lonely, babe.” He began removing his clothes as efficiently as possible, reveling in the way Mycroft watched his every move, his gaze becoming molten the more skin Greg revealed. It was a heady thing to realise that Mycroft really did want him, too. When he was down to his pants, he climbed onto the bed and gathered Mycroft into his arms. 

They kissed and kissed. Greg’s hands roamed everywhere, delighting in every moan and whimper. He plucked at Mycroft’s vest, and he obliged by tugging it off. Greg nuzzled his nose into the furry ginger hair peppering his chest. It had been way too long since he’d been with a man, he forgot how much he loved running his fingers through it. Mycroft’s skin smelled of whatever spicy soap he used. Greg licked one of his nipples, feeling it harden under his tongue. Greg wanted to explore every inch of Mycroft, but he’d been waiting so long…_so, so long_…he didn’t know if he had the patience. 

Clearly Mycroft felt the same way, because his hips kept jerking upward. In response, Greg bent down and nuzzled the outline of his cock through his pants, using his forearm to keep him in place. “Impatient, are we?” Mycroft whined, and Greg chuckled. He gave it a little kiss, then scrambled up to his bedside table to fetch the lube and a condom. He held them up and raised his eyebrows at Mycroft to make sure this was what he wanted. He looked back at Greg as if he’d just solved world peace, then grasped his shoulders and pulled him in for a kiss. 

Greg settled in on top of Mycroft for a bit, just enjoying the slide of skin against skin, lips and tongues coming together in a filthy dance. Eventually Greg reached his hand down and slid his fingers underneath the elastic of Mycroft’s underwear, curling his fingers around his erection. Mycroft let out a gasp against his lips. “Greg!”

Greg began to stroke his fingers up and down. “You doin alright there, love?”

Mycroft was gripping his shoulders, hard. “This is,” he panted, “a thousand times better than any sex I’ve had before.”

Greg nuzzled into his neck. “And we haven’t even got to the best part yet.”

Mycroft groaned. “If you don’t hurry up and get on with it, I’m not going to last long enough to get there.”

Greg circled his fingers around the base of Mycroft’s cock and squeezed a little. “You’ll be fine, sweetheart. Just breathe for me.” 

He divested Mycroft of his briefs, then made quick work of his own. Mycroft’s gaze was immediately drawn to his erection. “Oh!” Greg hoped that was a sound of approval. When Mycroft thrust the bottle of lube into his hand with a determined look, he got his answer. Greg grinned and slid down so that he could work on opening Mycroft up. With one hand he laced his fingers with Mycroft’s, and with the other he got to business. 

As Greg loosened Mycroft up, occasionally he lavished some attention on his cock to distract him from any discomfort. Mycroft’s breathing increased, and his thighs were shaking with the effort to keep still. Every so often he pleaded with Greg to get on with it, but Greg whispered soothing words in response. 

Finally, when he was satisfied, he climbed back up the length of Mycroft’s gorgeous body to give him a few more filthy kisses. Mycroft was wild-eyed by this point and Greg’s heart seized up. “How do you want to do this, darlin? If it’s your first time bottoming, you might want to straddle me and lower yourself down so you’re in control of the pace.”

Mycroft shook his head fervently. “No! I told you, I don’t want to be in control. I want it like this…I want to feel your weight on me.” 

Greg felt overwhelmed with tenderness. Hands shaking, he rolled on a condom and slicked himself up. Then, slowly and carefully, he began to push into Mycroft. He kept his eyes on Mycroft’s face, looking for signs of discomfort. Mycroft had his hands on Greg’s shoulders, holding on for dear life. When Greg was finally all the way in, he rested for a moment with his elbows propped up to give Mycroft time to adjust. 

Mycroft had his eyes closed and was breathing heavily through his nose. It reminded Greg of that time at the private air field, when they were hugging and Mycroft was trying to get himself under control. “Myc?” He opened his eyes, which were suspiciously bright. Greg felt a prickle of concern. “Love, are you okay? Does it hurt?”

Mycroft shook his head, and sniffled. “I’m afraid I’m just being maudlin.” 

Greg felt overwhelmed again, and his own eyes took on a sheen. “We’ll be saps together, then.” He lowered his head to bestow a medley of soft kisses over Mycroft’s lips. It wasn’t long, though, before he began to feel the insistent primal urge to thrust. His voice rough, he asked, “Are you ready?”

“Greg…I have fantasised about this so many times. I am more than ready, _please_.”

It was a relief to finally be able to move, though he continued to go slowly until Mycroft’s face reflected nothing but bliss, and then he increased his pace. Mycroft’s hands started wandering, caressing up and down his back, and then settling on his arse to squeeze and tug, and oh god it did something to Greg to feel those clever hands on him. How often he’d stared at them wanting this very thing. 

Greg experimented with the angle of his thrusts, grasping Mycroft’s hips to reposition him. Mycroft was making such pretty little noises, but Greg wanted more. He could tell he’d found the right spot when Mycroft made a sound like a choking gasp and his leg muscles spasmed against Greg’s waist. Greg gave him a filthy grin and kept at it. The little whimpers turned into keening, and Greg had never seen a more beautiful sight than this amazing man coming apart beneath him. 

Later he would reflect on the fact that what stroked his ego wasn’t that Mycroft was probably the most powerful man in the British government. Rather, it was that Greg was the only man that Mycroft trusted to see him like this. Greg didn’t know how the fuck he got to be so lucky, but he would do everything in his power to make sure Mycroft didn’t regret it. Because it would be really, really nice if he got to do this again and again, for as many years as Mycroft and good fortune would allow.

This thought, combined with a throaty groan from Mycroft and the sensation of his leaking cock sliding against Greg’s stomach, that made him feel that quickening that signaled he was about to orgasm very soon. He quickly reached between them and grasped Mycroft’s cock. Mycroft shouted, his hands flying outward to clutch at the sheets. Panting, Greg growled, “That’s it, Mycroft, I want to see you come.”

Mycroft shuddered, and Greg could feel his muscles squeezing and knew he was close. Mycroft looked up into his eyes, his expression filled with wonder. It put Greg over the edge with a shouted, “Fuck!” His breath came out in gasps as he tried to keep from faltering, and it was enough because Mycroft was coming, too. He ejaculated so hard that it hit Greg’s chin. He felt euphoric, triumphant.

Mycroft gazed up at him, and Greg had never seen him look so happy. He pulled Greg down into a hug, and Greg kissed and kissed him, telling him how beautiful he was. Mycroft responded in a choked voice that he was wonderful and perfect. When they finally came down from their endorphin rush, Greg fetched a flannel to clean them up, then asked in a small voice if Mycroft would stay the night. Mycroft looked at him as if he were daft, then pulled him into his arms and hugged him tightly in a way that made it clear he had no desire to be anywhere else.

As he drifted off to sleep, the last thought that meandered through his head was that it had all been worth it. The heartache of divorce, the years of loneliness punctuated by failed attempts at dating…all of it had led to this perfect moment, and he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

*

When Mycroft woke, he was confused by the texture of whatever it was his cheek was resting upon. It was more firm than his pillow, and courser somehow, with something tickling his nose. Taking stock of the situation, he finally realized that it was Greg’s chest hair. His whole body flooded with delight and a grin split his face. It was clear his face muscles were not used to this level of effort because it made his cheeks ache. 

He felt his eyes prick a little and he tightened his arm that was draped across Greg’s waist. The movement made him stir and Mycroft thought for a wild moment that he might awaken and object to having Mycroft wrapped around him so thoroughly. His body must have begun an involuntary retreat, because a hand on his shoulder held him in place. “You stay right where you are, love. You’re keeping me nice and warm.”

Mycroft wasn’t sure how it was possible for Greg’s voice to get even more gravelly, but it was a blessing indeed. “I can’t even fathom moving from this spot.”

Greg’s hand massaged his shoulder. “Mmm, really? Nothing on today?”

Mycroft felt his good mood wither as he remembered something, glancing at the clock on Greg’s bedside table. “Well…nothing this morning,” he lied smoothly. “But now that I’m more awake, I’m afraid I will have to leave this cosy spot temporarily.”

Greg grinned at him. “Bathroom’s first door on the left.”

Mycroft chuckled, then reluctantly slid to the edge of the bed. He felt a moment’s self-consciousness, but recalling the things they got up to last night, it seemed silly. Mustering his dignity, he reached for his briefs and put them on, wincing slightly at the soreness. He found he was inordinately pleased by the idea that sitting would be difficult today. On that note, he slipped out of the room.

He bypassed the bathroom and went into the living room to fetch his mobile. He was surprised, only three missed calls from Anthea. He called her back. “_Sir_, you have a meeting at the top of the hour.”

“I am well aware, Anthea. I neglected to set an alarm. If you wouldn’t mind moving the meeting to an hour later. Make that tw…three hours.”

“Rescheduling the PM _again_, sir?” Her tone was silky, but he heard the insinuation behind it and ignored it.

“Also, when I get in, I want you to bring me the intimate partner form.”

“The one you crumpled up, sir?” 

His lips twitched. “I’m sure you can print out a fresh copy.”

“I’ll have the details filled in, sir.”

“Thank you. And one more thing…” He took a deep breath and felt a tightening in his throat. “Arrange for a holiday someplace…family-friendly. For Sherlock, John, and Rosamund. As a thank you gift. Sherlock will know why.”

“I’ll take care of it, sir. See you in just under 4 hours.”

“Thank you, again.”

Mycroft went to the bathroom, because he was in need of it after all, then returned to the bedroom. Adrenaline zinged through him when he saw Greg reclined against the pillows, the sheet barely covering his torso. It wasn’t Sunday, but Mycroft looked forward to the lie in he’d been obsessing about for the past two weeks. He climbed into the bed and was soon curled up next to the man he’d been obsessing about for years. 

Life was strange, he thought. He’d recently been through what he could safely say was the worst ordeal of his life. And somehow out of the ashes he had been given the best thing that ever happened in his life. The strangest bit was realising that he didn’t get what he wanted through being strong and in control, but by being _broken_. And he knew with the greatest of conviction that he appreciated Greg all the more because of it. But that didn’t mean he should give up on being strong. Now, more than ever, it was expected of him. He just needed to learn to balance it against this new part of himself that was open to vulnerability. In fact…no time like the present to test it out.

Mycroft shifted so that he was looking into Greg’s eyes, and mentally tore down the last wall guarding the most defenceless part of himself. Without preamble, he said softly, “I love you.”

Greg’s expression had been tender before, but now it transformed into brightness. His eyes glowed. “_Mycroft_. I thought it was going to be awhile yet before I got to hear those words, if ever. You don’t know how much it means that I don’t have to wait to say it myself.” His breath hitched. “I love you, too.”

Mycroft melted into his arms and Greg held him tightly as he shook with relief. He was glad he’d taken the leap, because now it felt like he was flying. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone (and my bidder!) enjoyed it. You can find me gushing about these two lovelies on tumblr (sherlock-nanowrimo) or twitter(jadziastone).


End file.
